Page 44 of Whisper of Nightmares

And he was there.

Euphemia rips the bedsheets off⁠—

She needs to feel air upon her flesh.

Light upon her skin.

Something real.

Something warm.

Something alive.

Free from the salt-damp cotton, Euphemia kicks her legs over the edge of her bed. Her toes graze the rug beneath the bed. The tension twisting her chest eases for a moment.

Just a dream.

Just a⁠—

As Euphemia stares down at her bare feet, she finds them muddied and sodden, and alarm tangles inside her again. She looks back at the bed, hoping it’s all in her imagination. A trick of the mind. A remnant of the dream that has lingered beyond sleep and will diminish the more she regains consciousness.

But the place where her legs had been is dirty, too.

Not dust or discoloration from old, unused linens.

Real mud. The bed sheets are now stained a deep, dark wine color that reminds her of blood.

She stares a moment, chest heaving.

“No. No. No,” Euphemia whimpers, a new fear sinking in as reality descends around her. “Not now. Not here.”

If the servants find her in such a state, if they find her bedding like this, what in heaven will they think of her? That she went traipsing through the moors in the dead of night like some woman possessed?

It would soil what little of a reputation she is determined to hold onto.

It simply will not do.

Deciding that no one shall ever learn of this, Euphemia uses the clean edge of her bedsheet to wipe the mud from her feet. She hops out of bed and begins quietly removing the bedding, wadding the sheets and blankets into a pile so she can take them into the washroom before anyone else can awaken⁠—

When suddenly, a knock sounds at the door.

“Heaven help me,” Euphemia mutters and stands as stiff as a broom. “W-who is it?”

The door opens without warning, and Asvald steps inside, his mouth primed to speak. But at the sight of her disheveled bed linens wadded together in her arms, anything he’d been about to say gets swallowed instead.

“Everything alright, my lady?”

Euphemia musters a lie and a cheap grin quickly. “Monthly menses.”

Asvald clears his throat, averting his eyes as he reaches out. “Ah. Hand ‘em here and I’ll make sure your bedding is fresh again for you tonight.”

“No!” Euphemia’s grip tightens protectively around the linens. Hearing the strain in her voice, she tries softening it. “I mean, I know how to wash my own bedding, thank you.” But even that is the wrong thing to say and she knows it. After all, now that she’s married to a lord, she’s not supposed to wash her own linens. Euphemia tries again. “I noticed the house is a bit short-staffed. The least I can do is clean up after myself.”

This doesn’t seem to ingratiate her to him, but his suspicion doesn’t deepen either. If anything, he looks uncomfortable.

“Short-staffed as we are, I assure you we can handle laundry.”

“Please,” Euphemia says with genuine humility, head bowing in her final attempt at pleading for mercy. “It’s my first night here… I don’t want the staff to find me a burden.”